


five times matt and julie get caught in a compromising position

by honey_wheeler



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There,” she whispers, pressing his fingers down on just the right spot under her own. “Right…there.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times matt and julie get caught in a compromising position

**Author's Note:**

> Set after “I Think We Should Have Sex.”

1.  
“So, when’s your dad coming to pick you up?” Matt asks. They’re sitting at a table in the corner at the Alamo Freeze. They’re not allowed unsupervised visits for a while, at least until Julie’s parents cool down and un-ground her, so here they are under the buzzing fluorescent lights, him in a paper hat and her on a short leash.

“Half hour,” she says, picking through her basket of fries for the little ones. She likes the short fries and always leaves the big ones for him, which is fine since he likes those better. He tentatively slides his feet forward so they alternate with hers, bumps her knees with his. She looks up at him and smiles, wrinkles her nose at him in that way that makes him want to back her up against a wall somewhere.

“You look cute in your paper hat,” she says, and giggles when he frowns and pulls it off his head. “Now your hair’s all messy.”

“Yeah, I need a haircut,” he mutters as he swipes his hand over his head. She leans forward and pushes his hand aside, smoothes the hair over his forehead and at his temples. Her fingertips brush his ears and he can’t help it, he closes his eyes and leans into her touch and tries to talk himself out of a hard-on.

“I like it like this,” she tells him, oblivious to the battle raging below the table. “You look all messy and…suggestive.” His eyes pop open. He remembers Saturday night, her body beneath his on the couch.

“Jules,” he says, and half crawls across the table to kiss her, his knee up on the chair for leverage. She’s smiling and giggling against his mouth and he touches his tongue to her lips, tilts his head and leans in.

Suddenly there’s a scraping sound and he finds his chair jerked away from the table by Coach Taylor. “Saracen, you mind staying on your own side of the table?” he barks, giving Matt’s chair one last push before folding his arms across his chest and staring down his nose at Matt.

“Uhh, uh, no sir, I-”

“Daddy, you’re early!” Julie says with forced brightness, pushing back her chair and gathering her books.

“Get in the car, I wanna have a word with young Mr. Saracen here.” Coach motions vaguely towards the front door with his hand and Matt’s stomach drops. He makes the saddest puppy eyes he can at Julie, begging her wordlessly to save him.

“Oh no, I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Julie says, and hooks her arm firmly in her father’s elbow. Coach Taylor allows her to tug him towards the door, but he gives Matt one last hard look.

“I’ll talk to you at practice tomorrow.” It’s more of a threat than a statement.

“Bye Matt!” Julie sings and steers her father out the door.

“Bye Julie,” he calls after her, then mutters, “…bye Coach.” He sighs. Nothing like fearing for your life to make the days fly.

 

2.  
It’s officially a study date. They’re supposed to be doing pre-SAT prep work under the watchful eye of Grandma Saracen. That’s how she sold her parents on the idea. If they knew that Grandma Saracen sometimes tries to use the phone to change the TV channel, they probably wouldn’t have let her come but what they don’t know won’t hurt them, that’s Julie’s theory.

They went through some flashcards when she first got there, for show. Grandma wandered in to find them quizzing each other on synonyms and antonyms, _the tone of this passage can best be described as_. They can hear her puttering around in the kitchen still, humming to herself and opening cupboards.

The TV is on. They’re watching _The Office_. It’s one of the few things she can get Matt to watch that isn’t football-based. They tossed the flashcards aside at the beginning of the show and now she’s on the couch leaning against the arm with him lying back against her. Her right leg is crooked up between his side and the back of the couch; he’s resting his forearm on her raised knee. Her other foot is propped on the coffee table, on the scattered flashcards. Every time he moves, he brushes against the inseams of her shorts and it’s making her squirmy and breathless.

He wiggles against her, slouching down lower, and she tenses, her fingers clutching convulsively around his shoulders. He freezes for a second, but then it must occur to him what the deal is, because he pushes back against her and smiles when she sucks in her breath. Then he snakes his hand behind his back and just barely runs his fingertips down her zipper.

“Okay?” he breathes as he tilts his head back to look at her, to make sure this is what she wants. She bites her lips and nods. Her eyes drift closed when he increases the pressure of his hand. His fingers skim along her abdomen before his palm settles on the juncture of her thighs and presses, gently but firmly. Everything in her body tenses, she can’t help it. She doesn’t want him to stop, though, so she makes an encouraging sound. The pressure of his hand renews, and it’s like when she touches herself alone in her bed at night, but ten times better.

It’s obvious he’s never done this before. He circles his fingers clumsily, coming tantalizingly close to where she wants him before skittering away. After the fifth time, she sneaks her own hand in between them and covers his, pushing it where she wants it.

“There,” she whispers, pressing his fingers down on just the right spot under her own. “Right…there.” Her voice unravels as he follows her lead. He’s panting a little now, too, she can feel the strain in his body. His hand moves in just the right way and she jerks, gets so close she can feel it.

“How about some lemonade?” The cheery voice of his grandmother penetrates her hazy brain and they both start. Julie opens her eyes and stiffens guiltily as his grandmother sets a tray of glasses on the table in front of them.

“That-” Matt’s voice is like sandpaper. He clears his throat. “That’d be great, Grandma.”

“You two keep studying, I’m just going to sit in here and knit. Don’t you worry, I’ll be quiet as a mouse!” She seems blissfully unaware of the ignored flashcards scattered across the coffee table as she settles into her armchair and plops a tangled skein of yarn onto her lap. Julie realizes she’s still clutching Matt’s hand in hers, that his fingers are still pressed against her, and she reluctantly loosens her grip. She feels wound up and jumpy and completely frustrated.

“I love this show,” Mrs. Saracen declares. “It’s so funny. And that Jim seems like such a nice boy. Like you, Matty.”

Matt cranes his head around, raises his eyebrows apologetically at Julie, squeezes her knee. “Yeah, maybe a little, Grandma.”

“That Jim’s a good boy just like you,” she repeats, and Julie buries her head against Matt’s shoulder and tries not to scream.

 

3.  
When he opens his history book a folded note flutters to the floor. He’s quick to trap it under his foot, slide it towards him. When Mr. Barron turns to write on the board, he snags it with his fingertips and opens it quietly under the desk.

 _Matt, ask for the bathroom pass at 10:45,_ it says. _Meet me at my locker._ Julie’s writing is loopy and sweet. He likes the way she writes his name. The M is different every time, like she’s practicing different ways of writing it to see how she likes it best.

He looks up at the clock. 10:37. Well he’s sure not going to learn anything about the Spanish-American War now.

At 10:43 he raises his hand. “Mr. Barron? Can I get the pass?” The teacher nods absently and waves at the pass – a giant foam flower on a chain that hangs next to the door. Matt slips out of his seat and grabs the pass on his way out the door.

She’s waiting for him in the hallway by her locker. He can see her silhouette slouched against the wall in the shade, one foot propped up behind her. As he gets closer, his eyes adjust to the darkness and she comes into focus. She turns at the sound of his footsteps and smiles. Then her eyes flicker down to the foam flower clutched in his fist and her smile turns into a smirk.

“I brought this for you.” He grins as he thrusts the flower at her. She makes an exaggerated _aw_ face.

“For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“So what’d you call me out of class for?” he asks. “It better be good. I was learnin’ something’ pretty important about Teddy Roosevelt.” He steps up real close to her, his feet on the outside of hers. For good measure, he braces his forearm on the wall above her head and leans in, crowding her with his shoulders and arms. She tips her chin down, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Well, we did get interrupted last night,” she reminds him.

“Did we?” he asks, all fake innocence. Like he could forget. He brings his other hand to her wrist, circles it with his fingers. He can feel her pulse fluttering.

“Mmhmm, so I thought maybe we could-” His mouth is on hers before she can even finish. He’s been thinking about touching her since the second she walked out the door last night. There’s a trace of maple syrup on her lips from breakfast and he swipes it with his tongue, opens his mouth over hers. Her hand that had initially settled on his chest is now slipping down, one fingertip tracing down his abdomen and just barely dipping between the waistband of his jeans and his skin. It makes him hard instantly and his hand is creeping towards her breast when Mrs. Taylor’s voice rings out in the corridor.

“I know you two aren’t doin’ what I think you’re doin’.” Her voice is hard and bright and he jumps back from Julie like he’s spring-loaded. Mrs. Taylor fixes her gaze on him and he suddenly knows what a deer in the middle of the road feels like when it’s in the path of an oncoming semi.

“N-no, no ma’am,” he stutters. Julie rolls her eyes at him, but he ignores her. He’s more scared of the mother than the daughter, at this point.

“’Cause you know there’s no…” – she pauses as she searches for a word – “fraternizing when you’re supposed to be in class. And I say this as a guidance counselor and not as a mother who grounded one of you for a month a couple of days ago and who would not feel even a teeny bit bad about makin’ it two months.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why not make it a year?” Julie challenges, and Matt stares at her in horror. Mrs. Taylor rounds on her daughter, Matt forgotten.

“Don’t you dare me, young lady.” She looks so fierce that Matt doesn’t blame Julie for mumbling and staring at the ground. If Mrs. Taylor ever looked at him like that he’d probably pass out.

Satisfied, she moves past them. “Back to class, you two,” she says as she walks by, then stops to turn and look at them. “Oh, and by the way. If you two find you have any more urges to visit the restroom?” Matt exchanges a glance with Julie, then nods hesitantly.

“Hold it ‘til you get home. Now git.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” Julie drawls. Her mother watches until they go in opposite directions at the end of the hallway. Somehow he can’t concentrate on the Spanish-American War at all when he gets back to class.

 

4.  
She’s late. He’s waiting for her in front of the ticket booth at the movie theatre and she was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.

“Hey Matt!” She bounces up to him and he’s so glad to have uninterrupted time with her that he doesn’t even think, he just grabs her face in both his hands and kisses her. She squeaks against his lips.

“Son, you mind gettin’ your paws off my daughter?” His heart sinks when he recognizes Coach’s voice. When he pulls away, she cringes apologetically. Her parents are standing on the sidewalk behind her, looking stern. Matt hates stern.

“They wouldn’t let me come alone,” she whispers. “I tried to call but your Grandma said you’d already left.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have a problem with that, do ya?” Coach adopts a falsely jovial tone and claps him on the shoulder, steering him towards the ticket booth with an iron grip.

“N-no, sir.” He feels like he could cry. They buy tickets and head in. Coach Taylor insists on buying a jumbo bucket of popcorn and what looks like a gallon-sized Coke and Jujubes for his wife. They file in to the theatre. Matt goes to sit next to Julie, but Coach Taylor stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Now, son, ladies first.” He gestures for Mrs. Taylor to follow Julie into the aisle and then steps in himself, leaving Matt on the end. “You and me are gonna sit together, have a little quality time. What do you say to that, tiger?”

“G-great, sure,” Matt stammers. He tries to lean forward a little bit, to trade looks with Julie, but Coach shoves the colossal bucket of popcorn directly in his path.

“Popcorn?” he asks innocently. Matt shakes his head no and settles back in to his seat with a sigh. So much for uninterrupted time with Julie.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Coach asks, his face smug. Matt can only nod weakly.

 

5.  
It takes her a while to notice the tapping on the glass. She’s got her iPod on to drown out the thumping. It’s hard to study with her parents going at it in their bedroom right next door. It’s so embarrassing and they do it _all the time_ , but at least she can tell by now whether it’ll be an iPod night or not. Flirting with each other over dinner: iPod night. Dad watching game tape, mom flipping through bills at the kitchen table: iPod free. Bickering and making up: _definitely_ an iPod night, the louder the music, the better.

Tonight was bad. Tonight she didn’t even kiss them goodnight because she didn’t want to be close enough to get sucked into their sick old-person grope-vortex. They’d been on the couch when she went in to say goodnight, on opposite ends facing each other. When she’d padded in on bare feet to grab her school bag, she could see how her mother’s feet were in her father’s lap, how he circled his hand around her ankle, how their fingers met along the back of the couch, tangling and untangling. _Gross._

“I’mgoingtobednight!” she’d called as she sailed to her room, keeping her eyes up and focused on the wall. They barely noticed, just murmured vaguely. _Nice parenting, guys,_ she thought.

It didn’t even take an hour before the creaking and thumping started. She just huffed and cranked the volume up as far as it would go. It wasn’t until a pause between songs that she heard it, the insistent tapping on her window.

Now she pauses the iPod, listens intently (as intently as anyone can listen when bedsprings are complaining right on the other side of the wall). It might just be a branch hitting the glass. But no, there it is again, too rhythmic to be the trees outside. She yanks the earbuds out and stands, patting her hands down her body to make sure her pajamas are in order and that she’s presentable. Who the heck would be at her window at 11:30 on a school night? She hopes it isn’t Tyra, even though she’s pretty sure Tyra’s way more accustomed to headboard thumping than she is. Or worse, what if it’s…

“Matt,” she gulps when she pushes aside the curtain and sees him there, on his tiptoes with his fingertips splayed on the windowsill. He taps again on the glass, dipping briefly out of sight when he loses his footing or something. She glances nervously at the wall between her room and her parents’ and unlatches the window. She has to heave it up; the heat makes the wood swell. She can’t even close her closet doors once it hits April.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, dropping forward on to her knees and resting her hands on the windowsill. “It’s almost mid-” She stops mid-sentence when he boosts himself up on the sill and kisses her, then drops back down to the ground. His aim isn’t the best; the kiss lands on the corner of her mouth. And her parents are _right next door_. But he grins at her, says _hey Jules_ , and she can’t help but grin back.

“What are you doing here?” she says again, but her tone is entirely different this time. He’s snaked his hand up near hers on the sill. Their fingers alternate on the white-painted wood; his tan, blunt finger with dirt under the nail, her paler finger, a patch of scarlet polish in the center of the nail, the edges long ago chipped away. Red scrapes decorate his knuckles. When he rubs his index finger against hers, it’s rough.

“I just wanted to see you,” he’s saying, that knuckle sliding along the inside of her finger.

“You’re gonna see me tomorrow,” she points out, but she doesn’t move her hand. Instead she slides it closer, runs her fingertip up until she hits the webbing between his fingers. He shivers, even though the night is warm and close.

“Not soon enough.” His voice dips to a lower register. Her stomach does a funny little flip; it always does a funny little flip when his voice goes all rough and low like that, like whatever she’s doing is making it hard for him to talk.

“You can’t last a few hours?” she asks. He raises his eyebrows and she flushes, realizing how that sounded.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Is that a challenge?” he interrupts her, laughing, looking uncharacteristically bold, and she giggles. “All right, I’m comin’ in there, I’ll show you just how long I can last!” Next thing she knows he’s boosting himself up onto the sill, his stomach on the edge, his shoulders bumping against her arms. His muscles bunch as he levers his knee up unto the sill, and he makes this interesting grunting noise that makes her feel a little funny, and she forgets to stop him at first. Forgets, that is, until she hears the thumps against the wall behind her and remembers her stupid horny parents who are _still at it_.

“Matt, no, Matt, _wait_ , you can’t come in here, you can’t-”

“Too late,” he pants as he slithers rather gracelessly from the sill to the floor with a muffled thud. He twists to sprawl on his back at her knees, one arm flung across her thighs. He grins up at her boyishly, and she wants to let him stay – god, she wants to – but she _can’t_.

“You have to go now,” she says, real panic creeping into her voice. The thumping is still going and it’s getting worse and oh my _god_ , how long can they _do_ this? She pushes at his shoulder but it’s like trying to move a rock. He doesn’t _look_ that heavy, but she can barely even move him an inch. “You can’t stay, it’s…I have the plague, it’s contagious.”

“The plague,” he says, in his _give me a break_ voice.

“Bubonic plague. It’s terrible, Icoulddieanysecondyoushouldgo.” _Thump, thump, squeak,_ goes the wall.

“I’m pretty sure we got our shots for bubonic plague during our football physicals,” he tells her. He’s tugging lightly at the drawstring to her pajama pants. She can feel it, tiny pulls at her waist that make her want to squirm.

“Swine flu?” she tries, glancing nervously at the wall again.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” he asks, tugging a little harder on the drawstring. He sits up, then, his shoulders crowding her, bumping her back a little. “You’re like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”

“Nothing, you just can’t- wait, I’m like a what?”

He grins. “Haven’t you ever heard that expression?” She shakes her head in exasperation.

“No, but whatever, you have to _go_.” The thumping’s faster. She’s got to get him out of here before he realizes, before…

“Ohhhh, Eric!” _Oh, god_. Matt freezes, his eyes go wide as dinner plates and his mouth drops open.

“Julie, was that…was that your…”

“Eric, yes! YES!”

“…mom,” he finishes lamely.

Julie moans and leans forward to bury her face against his shoulder. Her cheeks are so hot she could probably set his shirt on fire. She wants to die. She wants a house with thicker walls and she wants new parents and she wants to _die_.

“I told you not to come in,” she mutters against his chest, her lips catching on the soft material of his shirt. She pulls back and glares at him. She’s blushing so much she’s probably going to sprain something. They can hear her father now, _yeah, baby, you like that?_ , and she probably _will_ die now, just expire right on the spot. Matt’s shoulders jerk, his lips quirk up and he snorts.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” she tells him. “Don’t you dare, it’s _not. Funny_.” She pokes at his chest with her finger to punctuate the words, but it doesn’t help, he’s hunching up his shoulders and shaking now. “It’s not funny!” she insists again and slaps at his arm. He covers his mouth with his fist, slowly tips over like a Weeble and rolls onto his back, his chest jerking with suppressed laughter. Against her will, the corner of her mouth quirks up and her nostrils flare and soon she’s collapsing onto him in silent giggles.

It’s kind of like being on one of those magic fingers beds in a motel. His chest jumps and shakes under her cheek and she turns her face into his shoulder and bites his collarbone to keep from laughing out loud. _Ow,_ he sucks in his breath, catching her jaw in his hand.

“I’m glad that never happens with my Grandma,” he whispers and that sets them both off again. A bark of laughter escapes him, loud enough to carry down the hall, and suddenly the thumping stops. _Julie?_ her father’s voice calls through the wall, and it doesn’t sound happy.

“Oh god,” Julie gasps, and scrambles to her feet. “Get out, get out, you have to get out!” She grabs his elbow and pulls, but it only sends him off-balance and he staggers into the corner of her desk and curses. Heavy footsteps sound in the hall. With one desperate heave she half-shoves Matt out the window, whispering a quick apology when he lands in a heap on the ground. “Run before he breaks your knees!” she whispers, and struggles to push the window closed. She can only close it halfway before her door flies open and bounces against the wall, rattling in its frame.

“Julie, what the hell is going on in here?” She whirls and does her best to block the window with her body.

“Nothing! Why do you ask, daddy?” He narrows his eyes at her.

“Don’t be smart with me, young lady. I heard some boy’s voice in here.” He scowls and shakes his finger at her. “If you’ve got Matt Saracen hiding in the closet…”

“Daddy, don’t be silly, there’s no one in the closet. I was just…practicing.”

“Practicing,” he parrots, his tone incredulous.

“Right. For drama class. We’re doing monologues.” He makes a scoffing noise. “Really. I’m…playing a guy.” She says the last in as deep a voice as she can manage, dipping her chin to her chest and swinging her bent arms like a complete moron. His lips quirk like he’s trying not to laugh and he clears his throat.

“Is that why you have a boy’s wallet?” he asks, pointing at her feet. Sure enough, when she looks down, Matt’s wallet is lying open on the carpet in front of her toes. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he crawled through the window. She quickly scoops it up, clutching it to her chest.

“Props,” she offers lamely. “I borrowed it.”

“Uh huh.” He stares at her a long moment and she has visions of Catholic boarding schools, of mean nuns and 12-person dorms and gruel and capital punishment. Then he sighs and scrubs his hand across his face. “It’s late. Go to bed.” He turns to heads out the door. She’s about to relax when he leans back in, his hands flat on either side of the door frame.

“You know the only reason you’re not grounded for life is because you’ve got all your clothes on,” he tells her.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good,” he nods. “I’m taking your door off tomorrow.” Before she can protest he’s gone, and she can hear him talking to her mother outside in the hallway.

When she’s sure he’s good and gone, she pokes her head out the window. Matt’s pressed flat against the wall to her right. He looks like he’s been praying. She wordlessly holds out the wallet and wiggles it at him.

“Thanks,” he breathes.

“I can’t wait until I can move out,” she says.

“Me neither,” he agrees fervently.


End file.
